


The Adventures of Orlando Surana

by Qessanea



Category: Dragon Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:20:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qessanea/pseuds/Qessanea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am a keen fan of the Dragon Age Nexus, and on the Image Section there quite a few members would write stories or role-plays to go along with the images of their characters they posted. I decided I wanted to give it a go, and that's how I got into fan fiction. This is the second role-play I have written for Dragon Age: Origins, about one of my characters, an elven male monk named Orlando Surana, and his journey as a Grey Warden trying to defeat the Blight. In trying to bring new life to a tale we all well and truly know by now, I was inspired by the complex characters and interesting back stories written by Callista/Spidercat to develop a unique story for Orlando.</p><p>This narrative is INCOMPLETE, by the way, and I write slowly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventures of Orlando Surana

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Orlando Surana in his own words:**

I know I’m special. I can feel it in the blood flowing in my veins. I can feel it in each beat of my heart. I can feel it in the power that stirs within me, the power that grows with each passing day.

My eyes are green and slitted like a snake’s, without whites like others have. Tattoos of vines and flowers trace the lines of my perfect face. My skin is bronze and my hair like platinum. They call me an elf, but I know I am more. I am brighter, stronger, and faster than all in this mortal world.

I came into being like this. I had no childhood like mortals. One day I just **was**. I appeared in the physical world in this perfect form. I opened my eyes and looked around to find myself surrounded by a glowing nimbus. A human emerged through the light and introduced himself as Irving. He explained he was the lord of a place of magic, that he sensed incredible ability in me, and would be honoured to help me nurture this power.

I felt contempt. He was not as I was, but I looked around this place I found myself in and there was nothing else. I stared into the eyes of this Irving and sensed no deception. No other options presented themself immediately, so I accepted his offer. For now. I had nothing if not time.

I wait for something greater. For while it is difficult to believe, there is One greater than me. I can sense Him in the ether. He glows brighter than the sun, than the centre of the Fade itself. The mortals call Him the Maker. I know his real name, but I’ll never tell. I call him only the Master. He moulded me with His own hand from sacred clay. Breathed life into me with divine breath. And now I wait for my Destiny.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It is the day of my Harrowing. Irving watches me with that glint of possession in his eye, like I am his tool, his servant, his creation. One day I will have to ... _educate_ ... him in the fact that I am no mortal man’s possession.

But not today. I smile to myself as I approach the pedestal. They warn of demons, but I smirk at them. Demons are no match for Orlando Surana!

Light engulfs me and I find myself in the Fade. It is like coming home. Every fibre of my non-body vibrates with the power. Shapes shift and flow around me. Where others bemoan the lack of structure and form, I see endless potential. What one could do with such power! With it, my Master created the world. My Master created me! It is only the Beginning.

Now to find the demon. I glance around and see a man before me. He calls himself Carthus. I sense no demonic intent. He bows to me, explains his purpose.

Again the barest flicker of contempt. What does it say about one’s belief that it needs to be reinforced by the belief of others? I need no others – my faith is diamond. But he offers to mould the magic in me into something greater, something to serve the Master. I look within myself and understand that it is what my Master wants. I accept and feel the power wash over me, transforming me.

Now I am a Monk. My will and body are one in a way they never were when I was casting fireballs or waving a stick of wood around. This is what I was destined to be. After killing a wisp, feeling my new power for the first time, I consider going back to strangle Carthus, but what would be the point? The power is already mine.

Later I am intercepted by something resembling a mouse. It can’t fool me, of course. I know it’s a demon, a demon of Pride. Does it think I would not recognise one of my Master’s first-born? He was only practising on you and your ilk, ‘Mouse,’ and on the mortals that came after. I am his final work, his masterpiece, a perfect melding of the spiritual and the physical. There is nothing you can do to touch me, Mouse, so by all means follow me. Let us explore this place together.

Next I encounter a spirit of Valour. These so-called ‘good’ spirits are more contemptible than the demons. At least the demons hunger for more than their meagre lot. They long to possess a mortal body; they dream of the dual perfection I have achieved without effort. I feel like killing this Valour, so I provoke it into attacking me. Coward that it is, it retreats at the last moment and will not engage me further. But I have better things to do.

I meet a demon of Sloth next and he recognises my power, for he has no desire to challenge me, merely stays encased in the form of a mutant bear. But he begs me to take part in a riddle game, amusement being so hard to come by in the Fade, in return for giving Mouse his shape-shifting power. Mouse stands there more pathetic and woe-begotten than before, keeping up the charade of a long-lost and murdered apprentice. I sneer inwardly. Fine, let the Demon-Mouse have more power. At least when he finally turns on me, he might be a slightly more worthy adversary.

With my Demon-Bear in tow, I march onwards towards my test. Suddenly, a pack of spirit wolves converges on me. As they zoom towards me on silvery legs, gnashing teeth insubstantial but deadly, a vague sensation of recognition nags at me. But I let my power rise, let it flash through me like an electrical current, and I decimate these parodies of the physical world with a flurry of fists and feet. Onwards.

I see a figure waiting for me in the distance. An amorphous mass of flame with brighter eyes and a fevered desperation in its rasping voice. I sense the weakness and transience of fury, blazing then exhausted just as quickly. Ah, a demon of Rage! They couldn’t find a better opponent for Orlando Surana?

When the demon blows Mouse’s cover, I react not at all, but see a flicker of frustration in Mouse’s eyes. I smirk to myself. I know your game, Demon!

I dispatch the Rage demon with no trouble, my iron will and faith snuffing out its fury like a candle. While the Rage demon melts into a puddle of flame, I turn to Mouse-Bear-Demon. Realisation flashes in his eyes. I sneer my triumph in his face and plunge a glowing fist through his body, finding the pulse of spirit at the core and squeezing it. Within the prison of my fist, the energy contracts then explodes outwards.

I am victorious.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Jowan’s impressions of Orlando Surana:**

I was never sure what to make of him. Apprentices nearly always come to the Tower as small children. Never in my time here have I seen anyone older than thirteen brought in by the Templars. But Orlando Surana must have been eighteen or so.

He just appeared in class one day, swaggering through the door like he’d lived here all his life. He appeared to have had little magical training till that point, but picked things up faster than I thought possible. Maybe if an apprentice starts later, they learn faster.

I tried to talk to him after class. I don’t have many friends, so I know what it’s like to be on the outside. He looked me up and down, those peculiar serpentine eyes piercing me and a sardonic smile quirking his mouth. I almost expected a forked tongue to flicker between those lips. I found him incredibly unsettling, but he didn’t shun me like others, though his demeanour did drip casual contempt and a pride so overweening it bordered on delusional. But he treated everyone like that. What can I say? I can’t afford to be picky.

Orlando’s accent was strange, his words drawling and sharp at the same time. Though apprentices come here from all over Ferelden and some other places, I couldn’t identify it. I asked him where he came from, but he just smirked at me and refused to answer.

In spite of his natural flair for the arcane, he seemed to hold magic almost in distaste. He spoke of some 'Master' with great fervour; in fact this Master seemed the only being in the whole world he held in higher regard than himself. And that’s saying something. I thought maybe he was referring to the Maker. But he never set foot in the Circle’s Chantry. Never.

I tried to invite him in once, an attempt to bond. But he lost it, completely lost it. That blinding arrogance dropped for a moment, and a rage like I’d never seen exploded in front of me. Green fire spat from his eyes, magical energy radiated from his slight frame, and a tirade of words I’d never heard before spilt forth, a language I’d never heard before. He attacked me and the Templars had to drag him off me.

I never mentioned the Maker in his presence again.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When I arrive at Irving’s office, Irving and Greagoir are arguing as usual, and a man I’ve never seen before stands with them. He points out my presence to them, and they step apart with the same reluctance of two lovers caught necking. Again Irving stares at me with that proprietary gleam in his eyes. Greagoir just scowls. I know my presence in the Tower is a bone of contention between them. Greagoir doesn’t trust me and wants to know where I came from; Irving won’t tell him. Now Greagoir just storms out. Welcome to the Circle, Irving proclaims, we are honoured to have you, blah, blah, blah. Of course they are! Inconsequential bunch of nobodies.

But this is not all the First Enchanter wanted. He gestures the other man forward and introduces him as Duncan, leader of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden. This Duncan regards me placidly. I stare back through narrowed eyes, as the silence stretches. I sense a power behind his noble facade, but it is not arcane, physical or divine. A force I can’t fathom. Eventually I gift him with a cold nod of recognition. I dislike him immediately.

Irving asks me to escort Duncan to his room. I point out I am above this task, but Irving insists. There is nothing to be gained from arguing at this point, so I acquiesce. But I make a mental note of the indignity.

While Duncan and I walk the halls of the Tower, he tells me of trouble to the south. Some believe a Blight approaches, so Duncan has come to the Tower to recruit mages. He asks if I am interested. I just raise an eyebrow and don’t condescend to answer. Worldly matters don’t concern me. I am destined for greater things. He continues to babble on about his cause, but I have stopped listening.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Ugh – Jowan is waiting outside the Grey Warden’s room. I avoid eye contact and attempt to glide past, but he has the nerve to intercept me. Having another crisis over nothing, as usual. I glare at him, and he fidgets but persists. He has to speak to me in private. I swear the boy is infatuated with me! Of course, it’s hardly his fault – who wouldn’t be? I agree to his plea, but only because I have learnt the quickest way to get rid of Jowan is just to ride out his whining, while dreaming of more pleasant things.

He has a meeting place in mind, and I don’t think anything of it. At least, not until the doors of the Circle’s Chantry loom before me. I snarl at Jowan. “What do you think you’re playing at, mortal? You know very well I do not step foot in your house of false worship! I do not subscribe to your worship of the Chantry Whore!”

Jowan falls to his feet and begs me to enter. I consider kicking him in the teeth, but instead turn and stalk down the corridor. Jowan calls out, and I throw over my shoulder, “We talk in a place of my choosing or not at all.” Some people poke their heads around doorways to see what the ruckus is about. I snarl at them too, and they quickly retreat.

I go to the library, already planning what to do with my sudden free time. I am just about to settle down with a book when I hear Jowan saying my name in a timid voice. I look up with a scowl to see him cowering in front of me with a plain-faced Chantry bitch at his side.

“Orlando, we desperately need your help,” says Jowan, his shoulders shaking.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I stare down at Jowan’s phylactery.

How did I get roped into these mortal machinations? Again I look deep within and reassure myself this is what my Master wants. Why else would He reveal this path before me if He did not intend that I should take it?

Of course, I initially told that whinger Jowan and his dumb tart that I would not help them. Of course, I went to Irving to tell him what was going on right under his nose. To my surprise and grudging respect, he already knew. He asked me to play the spy and see that the Chantry bitch paid with Jowan when they were both caught red-handed. Why should only a mage suffer when a priest was also neck-deep in treachery? I must admit, it was a delicious idea. Fine, then, First Enchanter, let us cast doubt on the integrity of their Chantry. I couldn’t wait to see the look on Greagoir’s face!

So I went back to Jowan and the woman, told them I had a change of heart, poured it on real thick, and of course, they believed me. Then I had to do the grunt’s work, imploring first the unholy freak Owain and then a daft old Enchanter named Sweeney for a fire rod. As if I needed a fire rod to plunder the Repository! But I couldn’t reveal my new powers to anyone just yet.

We took the fire rod and cut through the defences of the Repository one by one, the whining of both Jowan and the woman resounding in my ears. Well, it would stop soon enough.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Templars stood waiting as Irving told me they would. Greagoir pushed through them with Irving on his heels, and I delighted in the look of humiliation, shock and betrayal on his craggy face. He immediately sentenced the woman to Aeonar, the mages’ prison. I laughed.

When Irving revealed my role in it, Jowan whirled to face me with the eyes of a kicked puppy. He called me traitor, and I replied coldly that it was not I who had betrayed everything I stood for. He screamed something at me about loving Lily, but I just sneered, “What do I care for your mortal love?”

“Why do you keep calling everyone mortals?!” he yelled hysterically. “You’re mortal, too! You’re the same as the rest of us!”

I bared my teeth at him. My Master would not stand for this, and I was about to strike him down – surely everyone who had ever met Jowan would thank me for it later! – when he pulled out a knife, sliced open his palm and smashed us all into the floor with a wave of power.

I stared in horror at all three old coots. Me, a Grey Warden?! Me, the slave of this insignificant mortal, Duncan?! I should strike you all down now for your temerity!

I turned to Irving, and pointed out to him that I was following orders, HIS orders, when I went into the Repository with Jowan and the woman. To no avail. Greagoir evidently had more power than I credited him with. Irving could not sway him, but still tried to save face by making out that to be a Grey Warden was a glorious and honourable thing, not a punishment.

I glowered at him and sneered, “So you are the Chantry’s slave, after all. You really are just Greagoir’s bitch!”

That Duncan man stood there with his hatefully stoic countenance, determined to recruit me.

I could see the reality of the situation. Irving did not have the power to protect me from Greagoir, like he promised. It was either go with Duncan or die. I took a deep breath – this is what the Master wants. My Master is too powerful for events to go against His will.

“Enjoy your mediocrity, fools!” I yelled over my shoulder, as Duncan led me away. “This isn’t over. You’ll see me again one day, and trust me, you won’t enjoy it!”

My laughter resounded in the halls of the Circle for a long time.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I have had much time to think over the journey to Ostagar. At least, I did when I wasn’t busy wishing misfortune on Duncan.

This was not a course of my own making. I believed I was doing the right thing in handing Jowan over to Irving and Greagoir, but I have been punished anyway. Anyone else would be disheartened by the lack of justice in the world. These events would shake the faith of an average believer.

But there is nothing remotely average about me. I have the wisdom and the foresight to see the greater scheme underlying all. Like no-one else, I can see the method in the madness of this world. In each seemingly random turn, I can see the plan of a Being far greater than any mortal taking shape. My Master is all-powerful and all-knowing. If becoming a Grey Warden is what must occur to further our goals, then I accept it gladly.

When I arrive at Ostagar and see the calibre of the Wardens, their recruits and the other soldiers, I am even more convinced I am on the right path.

A petty thief and a knight without a backbone are the only other recruits. The other Warden I meet is an inconsequential youth whose bearing screams weakness and a distinct lack of intelligence.

In a cage there is a thieving soldier who admits he wants to desert but hasn’t been bothered yet. I relieve him of both the key to a mage’s chest – I was a mage, after all – and the life he appears to find so burdensome. He can thank me in another life.

And don’t get me started on the ‘king.’ 

Clearly this army of mortals needs me.

I only wish all this could be accomplished without the Warden Duncan. Those dark eyes follow me everywhere about camp. What is this power he wields?

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I step from the shell of Ostagar into the Korcari Wilds. And even though we have emerged from the shadow of a ruin into mottled sunlight, I feel a chill shiver through my soul.

Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself. This wilderness is only another manifestation of my Master’s creation, another product of His awesome power.

Still, the vague unease continues. These Wilds are not the same as the tilled fields, the roads, the cities and the people I saw on the way to Ostagar. Those things exude order and logic. In the lines and angles of a paved road, in the symmetry of the mortal form, I see the heart-breaking beauty of power bent to an inexorable will. But this ... this is will being swept along in something else’s power.

I dislike it, but when has that ever been grounds for giving up? No mere forest can defeat Orlando Surana. I will bend it to my will instead, in honour of the Master.

I take a step forward, and feel the give of soil under my booted feet. The wind assaults my nostrils with the rampant smells of nature, and for a moment my vision dims. I feel as if my own supreme awareness has fallen away and been replaced with another weaker and more ignorant. There is a flash of tree trunks whizzing by, wind brushing my face, the ground rising and falling under running feet, underbrush snaring my legs.

My centre of being wavers, then I’m back again. I grasp the trunk of a tree to steady myself, feel the rough bark under my palm. What’s going on? Something must have shown on my face, for Alistair asks if I’m alright. I glare at him and he elects to mind his own business.

Then, as in my Harrowing, a pack of wolves converges on me from all sides, except this time they are flesh and blood. As I tear through them like a hurricane, triumph surges within me and restores my equilibrium.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Well, well, well.” The cultured tones echo through the overgrown ruin in stark contrast to the wild surrounds. I whirl around from the empty chest to see a woman descend from a crumbling stone ramp, as though from a palace.

Raven hair is pulled back from a perfectly proportioned oval face, and tendrils of it fall over pale tilted eyes and pouting lips. Her dark clothing is ragged but artfully so, and clings to her lush curves in a way that can’t be accidental. I scowl – she is showing far too much skin. She also exudes a wildness carefully contained within a fragile shell of elegance, and threaded through with a heady sensuality.

And she has power.

It is the nature of those with power – like myself – to both respect and distrust others of our kind, so I am intrigued yet wary. Daveth and Jory fear her. Alistair dislikes her immediately. A higher recommendation I cannot imagine. I choose for now to admire her. I am sure she feels the same about me, though she hides it well behind a facade of nonchalance.

She introduces herself as Morrigan, her voice caressing every word she utters in a curious rhythm, and offers to take us to her mother, who is currently in possession of the scrolls. Mother, hey? I wish to see the source from which this dark temptress sprang.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

This is Morrigan’s mother? I must say I am distinctly underwhelmed. She looks to me nothing more than a dishevelled old crone.

But when she looks into my eyes for the first time, her silver gaze penetrates me like a spear. Fear surges to my core, and I rip my gaze away from hers. For a moment, I think that maybe I was wrong about her, but when I look back, she is still just a crazy old woman hiding in a forest.

I cast sidelong glances at my companions. They still look fearful, but I can tell they didn’t experience what I just did. It must have been my imagination. I’ve been away from civilisation too long. This wilderness plays tricks with my mind.

“So much about you is uncertain,” she says, reaching out a hand to touch my face.

I smack her hand away. Uncertain? Uncertain! NOTHING about me is uncertain, you stupid old hag! She cackles gently as though she can read my mind.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Joining is conducted in a crumbling corner of the Ostagar ruins Duncan calls the temple. The night sky is a violet dome above and stars blink down with lazy disinterest. I arrive fashionably late to find Jory and Daveth fidgeting and Alistair looking solemn. A large plain chalice sits on a block of stone nearby.

“I’m glad you could join us, Orlando,” Duncan says calmly.

“Of course you are,” I reply. “What happens now?”

Duncan explains that the Joining involves being subjected to the darkspawn taint by drinking their blood. If the recruit’s body and will is strong enough to survive, that recruit becomes immune to the taint and is then a Grey Warden.

Unsurprisingly Jory dissolves into a puddle of cowardice, babbling about his wife and unborn child. Daveth hides his own fears behind a ragged layer of humour: the Blight will kill everyone anyway so if taking this risk now means even a tiny chance of stopping the Blight, it is more than worth it.

Hah, speak for yourselves, mortals! Daveth’s logic is based on the premise that all lives are of equal value, and we all know that is not true! Their lives might make an equal trade, but mine is worth more than all the peoples of Thedas combined.

But it is hardly relevant. The Blight can’t kill me and neither can this pitiful ritual. I can’t die, not when my Destiny is not yet complete.

I glance at the chalice again. Many thoughts pass through my mind in that instant. The darkspawn are supposedly descended from the Tevinter magisters who corrupted my Master’s Golden City. So in effect, I would be imbibing the essence of the mortals who dared to defy my Master. The thought repulses me, but I see the logic of taking on the power of one’s enemy. How better to thwart him than to use his own power against him?

The Blight was not my cause a few weeks ago. It is still hard to conceive of it as mine. But it appears as though the path to my Destiny lies – at least for the moment – in the mortal realm. Following that path will no doubt be easier if I’m not tripping over darkspawn every few steps.

Defeating the Blight is really only a means to an end. The mortal world and its inhabitants mean less than nothing to me – they did bring the darkspawn on themselves, after all. But if my Destiny requires its survival, then I will deign to rescue it from itself.

I step over the corpses of Daveth and Jory. “Give me the chalice,” I command.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Duncan’s Regret:**

I knew he wasn’t perfect. I knew he had an incredible and unique power, and I craved this power to use against the darkspawn so much that I was willing to overlook other things. I could see he was marred by the kind of hubris I imagine must have festered within the Tevinter magisters as they defiled the Golden City.

I knew all this and chose to ignore it.

Now Daveth lies sprawled on the ground. Jory lies in a spreading pool of his own blood. Alistair watches with sorrowful eyes.

Now I watch those serpentine eyes flicker about the Temple, the nervous energy swelling inside his frame, the challenging posture, the greedy hands grasping the Chalice and the promise of more power ....

.... and I hope the Joining kills him.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Two shapes loom over me, backlit by the moon. Soon enough they resolve into Duncan and Alistair. I leap to my feet in a hurry, displeased that they have been watching me for who knows how long while I was out cold. Duncan informs me without pleasure that I am now a Grey Warden. Stupid old man. Did he really doubt it?

Alistair is shaken and claims to be happy at least one of the recruits survived. Twit. Then he asks me if I had dreams. Although a flash of dark scales and ivory teeth flickers through my mind at his words, I stare at him coldly and say, “No.”

He keeps talking about Wardens and dreams, and I wish he’d shut up for a minute. I don’t care what he has to say; I want to be alone for a while to ponder these latest events.

Duncan still watches with dark and knowing eyes, then tells me the king requests my presence at a strategy meeting for the upcoming battle.

“If I feel like it,” I say, brushing past him to leave the temple.

Suddenly a huge hand clamps down on my shoulder and whips me around until I am face to face with Duncan. His hawkish nose is one inch from my own, and those dark eyes flash fire. I try to recoil, but he holds me fast.

“You WILL be at the strategy meeting!” he hissed.

I tear my shoulder from his grasp; he doesn’t resist. I stare into his eyes, rage steaming within me, and I want to smite him.

Instead I turn and stalk from the temple. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The so-called leaders consigned me to lighting the beacon to signal Loghain to charge. I was not to be in their ‘glorious’ battle. Fine then.

Certainly, Orlando Surana could rip through the darkspawn horde in a matter of minutes, preventing thousands of casualties on our part. But why pursue a course of logic when one of utter folly beckons so brightly? Why send me in to solve their problems when it is obviously so much more satisfying to wallow in collective failure?

Well, it’s certainly no skin off my nose. Enjoy your spectacular deaths, mortals. Hope they’re everything you imagined.

So while the mortals went off to face their own mortality, I went to the Tower of Ishal to light the silly beacon. Oh, and that wretch Alistair went with me.

It was the first time I met the darkspawn as a Grey Warden. The first time I met them with their own taint flowing in my veins. I didn’t pay them much mind in the Korcari Wilds, but I expected these encounters to be different.

On the first floor, I deftly sidestepped a trap – which Alistair and the two other morons with us naturally triggered, sending grease spraying everywhere. Even when a fireball slammed into the ground and engulfed us all in oily flame, I raced ahead towards the approaching darkspawn. The others screamed like little girls behind me.

One of the darkspawn sorcerers, an emissary, turned on me, clearly recognising me as the greatest (and only!) threat. The other darkspawn answered its call and rushed me as one. I met their eyes, looked within, searching for the power and arrogance of the Tevinter magisters – surely a trace must still remain! But they contain only slavering, desperate hunger. They are empty husks, devoid of souls or any kind of spiritual essence. This is the force that would engulf the world with its so-called evil?

They have no control … yet still they were here waiting for us, as though they anticipated the importance of the tower of its beacon. I wondered how they were able to put aside their hunger long enough to execute even this simplest of strategies. The one commanding them, the Archdemon, must be strong indeed. I remind myself he is one of the Old Gods of Tevinter, the enemy of my Master.

I imagined destroying him, even as I destroy the darkspawn in front of me.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I woke up surrounded by downy quilts. Memories of a flood of darkspawn falling upon me (and Alistair) rose like bile in the throat. I sat up abruptly and looked around. A dark-haired woman turned to face me and cocked an eyebrow. It was the woman Morrigan from the Korcari Wilds.

She explained that Loghain betrayed the Fereldan forces by pulling his own men out at the last minute. Her mother saved me (and Alistair) from the top of the Tower of Ishal before the darkspawn could overwhelm me (and Alistair), then healed my injuries (and Alistair’s). I scoffed at this – I would have been alright! But when she said her mother wished to see me, I obliged. Perhaps the old hag was more powerful than I thought.

Morrigan and I left the cottage to find the hag standing outside, looking over muddy marsh waters. She turned to face us.

“You! You’re alive!” someone else said. It was Alistair. I frowned. Where did he come from?

“Of course I’m alive!” I snapped, then turned to the old woman.

She told us that the king, the army and Duncan were massacred by the darkspawn horde. Alistair started blubbering, so Flemeth smacked him in the head and he stopped.

She addressed me instead. “Clearly it’s you I should be talking to.”

So, to cut a long and boring discussion short: I was the only Grey Warden left in Ferelden (except for Alistair) and it had now fallen to me to save the world from the Blight. Despite the fact that I could kill the Archdemon single-handedly whilst in a coma, I should:

 **(a)**     take the Treaties – though how they ended up in my possession if Duncan had them last I’ll never know – and recruit the four groups;

 **(b)**    defeat Loghain;

 **(c)**     reunite Ferelden;

 **(d)**    take the gathered army to defeat the horde;

 **(e)**     then find the Archdemon and slay it;

 **(f)**     oh, and take Morrigan with you – I’m getting sick of her

“And one last thing,” she said. “I’m actually the infamous Flemeth. Just so you know.”

I regarded her weathered face. An intriguing turn of events, but first things first: we had to get rid of the pesky Blight.

I led Morrigan from the Korcari Wilds, and we made camp. I think Alistair might have still been following along behind us.


End file.
